Entry 22

I saw something quite funny today. One of the many free range chickens about the place was strutting his stuff around the front yard when he espied a reflection of himself in the shiny, silver bumper of a small truck. The rooster was quite taken with the handsome fellow in front of him and started dancing around, preening his fine looking self and ruffling his feathers. When the relected coq mimicked his every move, the real rooster became quite agitated and started throwing himself at the car feet first and wings flapping. He continued on like this for some minutes until he decided he'd had enough and began to peck away busily at the ground.

One of the other regular amusements here is walking by the prison. The prisoners are dressed in classic striped summer pj's and are often seen digging ditches in a chain gang along the side of the road. The prison guards accompanying them don't look too concerned and are often seen gazing into the distance or at whatever young woman (or mzungu) happens to walk by. Apparently, re-offending here is common. This is because the prisoners are guaranteed 3 square meals a day, meat at least 3 times a week, clothing, shelter and a few shillings for their work; this, of course, being a lot more than what many people on the outside have. The security seems a bit lax to say the least; whenever I pass by the place, the guard in the "tower" (a dilapidated tree house with corrugated tin walls and a wobbly staircase) can be seen relaxing comfortably with his arms bent back behind his head and his feet up on the ledge. I'm guessing it's a minimum security prison!

Another source of wonder here is the competing Sunday morning church services. With no exaggeration, depending on where in the orphanage building or on the compound I'm standing, I can hear up to 5 services at once. And they're all being given through loud speakers or microphones. So while one preacher/pastor is praising the lord, another is leading his congregation in song, during which a third is frightening his listeners with tales of fire and brimstone, as a fourth is delivering his sermon, and the fifth might be the oman from the local mosque calling the small Muslim population to prayer. It's not exactly the religious experience that you might think. And I'm sure I'm the only heathen not attending some kind of service on Sunday mornings...

Chuckling at and on the matatus is a regular feature of life here too. In big cities and everywhere else I've been, the matatus have names like Bullet, Bad Boy, Survivor and a favourite, Last Victim. But in Kakamega, (remember all the churches), they have names like Jesus Wept and El Shaddai (God). My favourite local one though is Arafat Kid!

The matatus have touts who lean out the doors or windows calling out the destination and trying to convince potential riders that they should be on their particular mini bus and not the one in front or in back or beside. Competition is fierce, and I've seen one poor woman nearly torn in 2 as opposing touts vied for her fare. Sometimes they'll grab your backpack or shopping bag right out of your hand, so that you'll have to follow them to their vehicle.

The owners of the vehicles set a minimum price that they take each day; then it's up to the driver and the tout to make as many fares as possible, so they can cover that expense plus the gas (not to mention any fines) and then make some kind of profit which they split. To that end, some of them drive at ridiculous speeds, so they can get more fares at either end and in between. They totally stress themselves out rushing from A to B as fast as possible. They'll practically run other matatus off the road to do this.

Sometimes, they don't even come to a full stop; passengers have to jump off moving matatus or run alongside them and hop on to get on! On top of that, the roads in Kenya are usually awful; full of potholes if paved at all with no shoulders nor medians. Drivers pass on corners on windy roads at full speed. The speed bumps and police checks do little to slow down traffic. This part of the country is notorious for its number of matatu accidents.

Speed is not the only way they try to make a few extra shillings. They often try to overcharge any mzungu and wait until the last possible moment to return any change in the hopes they'll forget or just say "forget it." Of course, they also will try to squeeze in as many people as possible so that people are sitting with their bums straddling the gaps between the seats and standing leaning over each other. The matatus typically have 5 rows of 3 seats (including the front seat with the driver) which means enough seats for 15 adult passengers plus a couple kids on laps. I've been in one where we reached 25 passengers! I guess Kenyans seem to have developed an appreciation or at least an immunity to B.O. that I, as of yet, haven't quite developed. An overcrowded, sweaty matatu is almost always a stinky affair; it's why I always try to sit near the window!

The other thing about relying on matatus that I love is that they don't always go where they're supposed to. If you get on in Kisumu, for example, and you're going to Kakamega, but everyone gets off beforehand in little towns and villages and intersections en route, then when the last 2 passengers other than yourself "alight" a half hour from your destination, the driver may decide there's no point in going all the way with only one person, so he'll turn around to return from whence he came. Fortunately, they will try to find you another matatu going in the right direction (in a surprising turn of camaraderie) and will probably even pay the difference in fare for you...

It's all about attitude, isn't it? Another illustration of this point is my reaction to the constant call of attention to my foreigness. Kakamega isn't as cosmopolitan as other places in the country and wzungu are still a bit of a novelty in some parts. Each and every time I leave the compound, I am baraged by people calling out "Hey, mzungu!" or "How are you, mzungu?" or "Come talk to me, mzungu." A favourite repeated by kids is "How are you? Give me money!"

Children laugh and point and call out, often encouraged by their older siblings or parents. Young guys on the side of the road look at me like I'm a circus act, and they make remarks and giggle until one of them becomes bold enough to say "Jambo" or "Habari?" (how are you). It's very rude not to answer, and it's even ruder not to answer with a positive repsonse.

I've had to learn to wave with my wrist or elbow from side to side, rather than with my fingers up and down as this means "come here" and has led to confusion on more than one occasion.

I try to imagine myself sitting at home in Vancouver or Montreal or Providence or Brisbane and greeting every black man or woman of colour who passes me by. I try to imagine encouraging my child to wave to the foreigner. Depending on my mood, I can be rather amused by all the attention; in fact, it's flattering in some weird way, all these strangers inquiring after my health, wanting to shake my hand and converse with me. But on other days, I just don't feel like being friendly, you know?! Occasionally, it's all I can do not to scream "I'm lousy. How are you?" or "Do you really care?" or "Hey, African!" or "Yeah, my skin has less pigment than yours. What of it?!"

Fortunately, I can keep it all in perspective most days and find humour in being the town entertainment. In fact, yesterday, I found myself standing in a large crowd of people watching some street performance. Not suprisingly, all attention turned from the 2 guys dressed as women to me. The performers somehow included me in their commentary (which I didn't understand). I made a quick exit, and chuckling to myself, my embarrasment was pretty short lived. So I've learned one thing here, if you like to be invisible, don't come to Africa!

One more cause of amusement (in a sick kind of way) is passing by the hospitals here, you can see a wealth of coffin makers on either side selling their wares. This is only as disturbing as the flock of marabou storks in the trees outside. Marabous, like vultures, are ugly, scavenging, carcass loving omnivores...

One of the many headshaking things about this place I've come to appreciate...

Kwa Herini

Entry 21

So after sweet-talking and brown-nosing the manager of a local hotel (the Golf) that has a small swimming pool on its grounds, I finally convinced him that by reducing the price of admission, he would be doing me a great favour and giving 40 orphans an unforgettable treat. Most of the kids had never been anywhere near a pool; some had swum in creeks and rivers, but for all it had been ages since they were anywhere near a swimming spot.

A few days later, after much excitement and counting of the days and minutes, we all made our way to the pool. I was instructed not to let the girls and boys in together (I guess they're at an impressionable age; this was the case on the coast too when school groups would come to Colobus Trust), so first up were the girls. All 18 of them jumped in or made their way carefully down the ladder into the water, and much screaming and shouting and yelling and splashing and laughing ensued. The tiniest girl, Mercy, who couldn't reach the bottom of even the shallowest end, clung on to me for dear life. She was so light I could hold her with a couple fingers.

After 20 minutes, it was the boys' turn. Most of them jumped in a little more carelessly. The volume went up considerably as did the amount of water being splashed and kicked and thrown about. Michael, the smallest and youngest, jumped in fearlessly, despite not having a clue how to swim and immediately went under. Before I could reach him, 3 of his older/bigger brothers from the centre had him out of the pool and on solid ground. Michael, however, was undaunted and seconds later tried to jump in again! I insisted he only come in if he was in my arms. He seemed happy enough to oblige, and his adorable toothless smile was wide open for the rest of the time. I'm surprised he didn't swallow more water.

After the boy's time was up, the girls got to go in for another 10 minutes, and then the boys once again. Despite my concern that one of them would drown, much fun was had by all--including slightly stressed me! The kids have been asking me daily since then when we can go again.

A couple days later, the kids all went for their monthly head shaves; apparently one of the older boys usually does this for them all, but the razor was on the fritz, so it was off to the local barber. So now all 40 of them, girls and boys, are smooth headed. This isn't totally unusual; many girls and boys are similarly clean shaven.

I was trying to imagine how it would feel to be a 14 or 15 year old girl and be forced to have my head shaved. My hair was so important at that age (it still is as a recent horribly frightening haircut reminded me--I'll never again trust someone who says they can cut mzungu hair!). When I was that age, I was paying a ridiculous 40$ U.S for dyed, spiked fahionable punk haircuts...I would have absolutely fumed and protested if I were told how to wear my hair or to remove it completely! But these kids all went quietly and and without complaint...

Mind you, what was much more disturbing was the bit of blood I saw on one boy's head just after the razor had been used on someone else and just before being used on yet somebody else...

Moving on to other orphanage water experiences, let me tell you about doing laundry. First of all, you have to find a tap that has running water. Then you fill 2 basins: one for washing and one for rinsing. Then you soap up your clothes which is actually a bit of an art form as you need to keep the now wet and heavy item aloft and away from your body or your leather sandals with one hand while running a bar of soap evenly along it with the other. Considering how much red dirt and dust there is over everything, especially the seat of all pants and shorts, this may have to be done several times. Meanwhile, this is being done outside on the ground which means you're either squatting in front of the basin until your legs fall asleep or hovering bent over it until your back screams at you in discomfort.

As the soapy water leaves a film over everything it touches, rinsing is serious busines and repeated ad nauseum. Then you have to make room on the crowded clothing line and hang the items as they're done. This is why it took my nearly 2 hours yesterday to wash a few t-shirts, a couple pairs of shorts and my underwear. Pamela and Gertray (the house moms/matrons) can do it in a fraction of the time. Anyway, I was feeling fairly satisfied with my work and my sore back seemed earned, so off I went into town. Which was when it began to rain. Heavily. We had the biggest rainstorm I've ever seen here; replete with hail and very strong winds. When I got back, everything was soaked again and covered with bits of grit and grass, especially those pieces that had blown off the line and fallen to the ground. Time to start again.. This time though the kids were home from school and were laughing at me 'cause I'm so slow...

Actually the kids laugh at me a lot; when I try to talk in Swahili, when I try to chop firewood, when I attempt to play soccer with them, when I ask where stuff is that's in obvious spots, when I try certain foods and make funny faces becuae I don't like them...It's all good.

Kwa herini

Entry 20

I'm still in Kakamega volunteering at the orphange. The kids are becoming more and more trusting of me, and we're enjoying each other's company thoroughly. It's me some of them are turning to when they're sick ot hurt, and I miss them when I'm away for a day or 2. Of course, there are a couple that I'm becoming particularly fond of, but I'm trying really hard not to let any favouritism become too obvious.

Let me describe for you a typical day. After a fitful sleep interrupted by yelping dogs, screaming preachers who apparently think that the louder they yell into the loudspeakers echoing across the night, the more souls they'll save, and children coming and going from their rooms across the hall from me, I arise at 7:30 or 8.

My room is on the middle floor of our 3 story building. I go downstairs to pee then back upstairs to get my towel and things. Then I go up to the 3rd floor to see if there's any water which there rarely is, so I go downstairs to the 1st floor again to try my luck there. There's usually enough to shower once or twice a week. The shower is directly over a sink toilet/squatter which means I have to watch my step very carefully. Particularly challenging when there's shampoo in my eyes and I have to rinse by standing with my heels precariously perched on the edge...

On the days when there isn't water, I go to the kitchen to get a jerry can of water (if one hasn't already thoughtfully been placed by the bathroom for me)and take it up to the 3rd floor where I bathe in a basin. All this toing and froing is why it takes me an hour to get ready in the mornings!

I then go back downstairs for breakfast, usually consisting of 2 cold, yolkless fried eggs and some stale white bread. Mind you, this is a feast compared to the porridge that the kids eat each morning... Once I've gotten that down, I help out with the sorting of the beans and washing up from breakfast.

I often then head into town (a half hour walk) to buy water or run other errands and check email. Sometimes I'm taken to visit different facilities in the area such as literacy centres, community schools, the local university or Canadian run NGO's. I often arrive home around midafternoon, just in time to hang out with the younger kids who only go to school half a day. We play Hide and Seek; Red Light/Green Light; Red Rover, Red Rover and other games, although the latter has temporarily been stopped since Amos dislocated his elbow the other day and Philip had the wind compLetely knocked out him. Sometimes we read stories, but mostly we just sit and hang out together. I spent several days sewing buttons for the kids, and this was of great interest to the little ones. The kids are also fascinated by the light on my watch and are constantly checking the time.

Usually all the children are home by 6pm just in time for dinner which they wolf down in minutes. They then clean up around the compound and chop wood and clean dishes etc. until dark (around 7PM). "Preps" or what we'd call homework is how they spend the rest of evening. I walk around helping out those who need it and have found myself helping with science, math, social studies and English....just about everything I'd do in the learning centres at home except for Swahili. At around 9, it's time for songs and prayers and then bed, which is a long drawn out ordeal in which the energy level rises to a fevered pitch before quieting down to a reasonable level eventually petering out into silence.

The kids sleep 4-6 to a room in 2 sets of bunk beds. Some of them are doubling up, but I think it's more ouT of their own desire than lack of space. Unfortunately, there are no mossie nets, and a couple of them have contracted malaria just in the 2 weeks I've been here. There also seems to be a disturbing case of small pox going around.

One of the girls was telling me yesterday about the free use of corporal punishment in her school. (The kids all go to the same school.) They are caned for all kinds of infractions including getting more than 2 answers wrong on a quiz, talking in class, wearing their flip flops to school (for many of them, it's all they have to wear, and you wouldn't believe how many times they've been repaired) and all sorts of minor crimes. All the teachers do so, and the kids get hit on their palms, calves, backs and bums depending on the severity of the crime and the prediliction of the teacher. When I asked Presca (the student) if she thought it was at all necessary, she said yes. And when I spoke to the house father about it, he too felt it was a necessary evil. Apparently the government is trying to outlaw it, but there's huge resistence from parents, teachers and headmasters.

Having said that, I met with the headmaster of their school last week to see if there were any kids with problems I could help with, and he spoke very highly of these orphans and the effort they make as a whole. Socialization and academics don't seem to suffer as a result of being parentless, and in fact, because of the emphasis on education that the centre places in each child, they're doing better than many of their peers.

Guess that's it for another installment,

Kwa Herini,